


I, Centurion/Non Sum Qualis Eram [I am Not Such As I Was]

by megyal



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Centurions - Freeform, M/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-07
Updated: 2009-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:22:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><i>triclinium: dining room<br/>mulsum: 4 parts wine, 1 part honey.</i></p>
        </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Ante victoriam ne canas triumphum.  
Do not sing of victory before you triumph._

It is _after_ a skirmish that a fighter feels the blow.

Especially if there is more than one blow and more than one skirmish, the young centurion mused, the gentle hollow sound of his horse's hooves barely penetrating the still comfortable night and the deep exhaustion that filled his body. The _legatus_ had been so pleased with him, so delighted with his reckless performance on the blood-soaked foreign fields, that he had handed over a large portion of the spoils, and three captured young men before allowing him to leave the garrison. These were trailing abjectedly behind him, hands tied, as he passed through the sleeping walls of his beloved city, Roma, his home.

Home. He had not seen its solid dusty structures in many months, and his face dissolved into a tired, yet cocky grin. In the middle of battle, he would find his thoughts reaching as if to push open the doors of his private apartments, the ones that let in from the sunny atrium where the cool water in the small _impluvium_ lay trembling under a light rainfall. As he would sit cramp-spined on a calm Quiriac, he would think about burrowing under cool cotton sheets so that his _mater_ wouldn't invade his peace when she came to visit and attempt to boss around Docila and the other servants. While his men in the Sixth Cohort waited silently around him for instructions, he had reveled in the pleasurable anticipation that in a few months he would be able to roam around in his quiet little _bibliotheca_ , touching the smooth parchments he had taken from his grandfather's house and unfurling them with deep respectful care. His grin remained in place as he finally dismounted in front of his own vestibule, and one of his servants came out to shyly take hold of the shiny-black Quiriac and lead the proud horse, nickering in weary salutation, to the side of the centurion's home.

First thing: a hot steaming bath. Then hot steaming food, _heaps_ of it from Docila, who was most likely aware of his return, probably from the houses of other warriors. She had probably been frantic in the _cucina_ , hassling the cook to get out his favourite meats, _porca_ maybe, and _dulcias_ designed to ravage his tastebuds with cloying sweetness.

And there she was, plumply ecstatic, standing beside a column in the open-aired atrium as he emerged from the narrow passage of the vestibule, dressed in her best _tunica_ , her shawl drapped cunningly and smiling with a sort of mad relieved joy as he removed his crested helmet slowly. She was careful not to embrace him, not in front of the rest of the household servants who had come to greet him in the cool lamp-lit courtyard as well, but there would be a critical inspection of all his bruises later, and an annoying series of exclamations that only other women who raised centurions would be able to decipher.

"My little caesar," Docila said affectionately, taking his helmet and snapping at another servant to bring the new slaves forward and untie their hands. He grinned at her, and then winked.

"See? Look what I've brought you. More for you to bully around."

Docila laughed gently, stepping around him to look at her new charges. There was one who wore a robe that formed a tattered hood over his head, and she tugged at it, making it fall to his shoulders.

"Petronus! Look at this one!"

Petronus rolled his eyes, in the middle of unlacing his _caligas_ , and stepped out of one, turning to see Docila holding on to the chin of one of his new slaves and shaking it with delight. His face was very dirty, just like the others, hair matted, but as Docila gave his chin another gentle squeeze, his eyelids slid up and met Petronus' curious stare.

How extraordinary.

Such a light colour, not strange, but still very unusual. This young one held onto Petronus' gaze for a bit, but looked away as the centurion stepped closer. Docila was rubbing at his skin in earnest with a fisted palm, removing some of the grime, and Petronus saw that the shade underneath was a smooth cream, like the milk Docila used to force him to drink as a child.

He reached out a slow calloused hand, and his newest acquisition flinched away.

" _Noli me tangare_ ," he uttered in a rusty, strangely inflected yet intelligible voice, and the centurion and his housekeeper looked at each other in suprise, then looked at this fair slave, who had pulled his chin out of Docila's grasp and turned his head to the side. _Touch me not._ There was a slight murmur bouncing among the rest of the servants and Docila clucked her tongue at them warningly; she even shot an admonitory look at the other two slaves, who had shrunk back and into each other as they watched the anger stretch the planes of their new master's face.

Petronus raised his hand, his temper flaring too rapidly, and Docila grabbed at it, which still held the sandal he had just taken off.

"Pete." The use of his childhood petname brought him up short, and he glowered at the slave before relaxing and succumbing to Docila's calming voice. "Go take your bath. I made sure it was very hot. Go, little caesar. Before it loses the heat."

Pete stalked off, his sandal swinging in his hand. He stopped suddenly and turned, sneering.

"Docila! Put _that_ one to clean the stables and my horse. Quiriac has had a long day. And make sure he doesn't rub him down too harshly. I will beat him if Quiriac catches fever."

He smirked as the little rebellious one flashed surprised blue-grey eyes at him, and Petronus turned away, back straight and commanding.

*

Petronus frowned heavily as the slave poured more hot water. Docila had obviously taken pity on him, and no wonder too, because he was lovely. Lovely in the way the lamplight glowed on that copper-coloured hair, washed and combed, now falling in a smooth light sheet around his face as he picked up another heavy jar and tipped it up into the large square bath slowly. His body was pale curves under the swaths of the tunic, soft and obviously not used to labour.

"Ah, now I see. A little _patricius_ is what I got," Pete mocked, and held out a smaller jar to him; he hesitated, then took it from Pete, fingers suprisingly long and deft. "A noble one, yes?"

"If you wish it to be so," he murmured in reply, and took some of the water out of the bath, letting it slip in warm waves over Pete's head. Petronus snorted.

"And your name?"

"You have named me Patricius, I suppose," this...this _child_ said in icy tones, and Pete glared at him. He flushed, cream melting into pink tones and bit his bottom lip, full flesh disappearing in between his teeth and Pete suddenly forgot for a few heartbeats to be angered. "I am sorry....master."

Pete reclined against the walls of the bath, feeling highly smug. Well. Docila had obviously educated him in his new place and purpose. Which was good. He was not in the mood to give out beatings tonight (not that he usually was, but this little _patricius_ did not have to know that).

"You're right," he said, suddenly jovial. The slave blinked at this mercurial change, the jar perched in mid-air. "Patricius. That is your new name. Patrick. Once a son of a nobleman. Now a simple slave," Pete finished airily, grinning wide at the jar trembling in the pale hand.

"As you wish," came a choked-out reply, and Pete chuckled, highly amused by the guarded look on his round face. A little _highborn_ , probably very well-educated, so Pete could probably keep him in the house. Although, if he continued to look at his master with such barely-concealed disdain, Petronus would make sure he slept in the stable with Quiriac.


	2. Chapter 2

_Forsan miseros meliora sequentur_   
_For those in misery perhaps better things will follow. (Virgil)_

"Surely you know," Docila murmured to Patricius as she displayed the order and the  food with which Petronus liked to break his fast (the centurion would certainly ignore the green sheafs of lettuce and pick out the poppy seeds, as he always did), "about these Romans, how they are with their property."

"Yes," Patricius sharp low tones, arranging the flat slices of crusty brown bread to one side of the platter. The cook hovered impatiently, and Docila flapped her hands in annoyance; the cook huffed his way back to the fire. "The _dominica potestas_. Absolute power over the slave."

Docila pursed her lips at him, and Patricius flushed, polished bright strands sticking to a slightly damp brow..

"Many of them are... _unfair_ to their posessions," Docila said low, picking up the tray and putting it carefully in one of the young slave's hands. "But our Pete is very good to us. He is a good man."

"I shall have to take your word for it," Patricius bit out. "My new master belongs to the _horde_ that destroyed my town, and separated me from my parents. They might be dead, for all that I know."

Docila stared at him, her lips folded in on themselves, trying not to voice her reproach. The anger fairly oozed out of the smooth skin, a deeply set loathing that she did not understand nor could relate to. She had been raised with Petronus' family, a child of servants herself, and he had been put within her care from a very young age. Aurelia, his proud mother, claimed she adored the child, but he was always in her way. Petronus contrived to keep the distance as she desired, going as far to live in the house his father left for him when the general had died.

Now, here was another one without family, and Docila's mothering instinct roared to life.

"Did you have any brothers? Sisters?" She asked, taking up the earthen jug and placing it carefully in his free hand. Patricius turned slowly, with a species of stiff-backed grace. He gave her an unreadable look, the expression those strange light eyes still closed, hard.

"I was an only child. An heir. Now, I am nothing."

He swept out into the open-aired space of the _peristylum_ at the rear of the house, which was so much plainer than the wooden elegance of the _atrium_ , and made his way rapidly along the side-corridors to the _tablinum_. The master's study.

*

Petronus did not look up as the tray was placed with care at his left arm and container of water beside it on the fine round table the centurion was seated at. He could feel the waiting presence of his servant, but made no move to acknowledge him, continuing to scratch idly with a bit of coal at the crackling parchment beneath his rough fingers.

Patricius remained extremely silent.

"Are you quite comfortable?" Petronus asked suddenly, still not looking up. He could actually feel the wary shock emanating from the servant, and fought to supress a mischievous smile.

"My...yes. I am comfortable, master."

Petronus struggled with an sudden uncontrollable urge to laugh. He had taken this one as his personal servant, what he had always considered unnecesary for his daily activities (his mother would violently contradict this. Aurelia once said she needed a different servant for every for every hour of the day). But he was discovering a sort of strange extreme delight in the thought of having the fair-haired one always next to him.

"And you recall your duties to me?" He made sure his speech was haughtily drawled, much like Aurelia when she gave her absolute orders.

"I do, master."

"Recite them."

There was a small pause; Petronus could sense the servant gathering himself, and Petronus was admittedly pleased. There was much to be said for a man who would strive to keep his composure under duress.

"I must always see to your...comfort. Be at your side in public and at... _home_ , so I may be of service at all times. Your bath...my responsibility. When you are a guest in other homes, I must take care of your sandals while you eat-"

" _Bene_. That is enough," Petronus interrupted swiftly, finally looking up from his armless chair. The servant was standing closer than he thought, and he widened his eyes, pulling back a little in reflex.

Patricius himself took a large step back, his own eyes fixed upon the centurion's face.

"Sit over there, beside the couch. I will soon rest." He returned to his parchment and listened to his servant rustle quietly. He spoke again, almost muttering as soon as the movements ceased. "Know something of me. I will not harm you unless you provoke me to it. Running away will do you no good, as I would be forced to punish you harshly when you are returned by the slave hunters." Petronus paused and then turned his head to look at the little highborn. "Do you understand?"

The look in Patricius' eyes was politely cool.

"Yes, master. I understand."

*

Petronus tried his very best to burrow further in his sleeping-couch, ignoring the shrill sounds of his mother finally pushing her way past Docila to his _cubicula diurna_ , his daytime resting-room. As Aurelia snapped aside the heavy curtains imperiously, her sharp dark eyes fell upon Patrick sitting stiffly on a stool beside her son. The servant could hear Docila's scandalised mutterings retreating back to the peristylum, probably to grouse at the cook, and get some sort of midday meal prepared. Aurelia raised her eyebrows and then shrieked without provocation at the centurion, who was pretending to be asleep. Patricius jumped.

"Arise, child! Have you no shame? The day is at its peak, and here you lie. Get up!"

"Have _you_ no shame?" Pete came back with grave petulance, turning over and facing the tall back of the wide couch. "I have been fighting for too many months. Let me rest!"

"And what is _this_ at your side!" Aurelia continued with disgustingly high-pitched tones, her gold bracelets clinking sharply as she advanced on the young slave. Petronus sat up straight in his couch, turning to watch warily as his mother bent and peered into Patricius' face. Much to his credit, Patricius allowed his eyes to fall, and Aurelia snorted in disdain, beckoning to her own line of servants behind her.

"I brought a new tunic that you simply must wear under this toga I had made for you," she announced smugly, and Petronus growled at her. She knew how he hated those awful things. It was so bulkily hot, always needed to be clutched under his right arm. This was his sword-arm. If it wasn't free to move, he would be driven mad.

Aurelia ignored his sound of complaint and snatched a massive pile of material from one of her servants, and then dumped it into Patricius' lap. As the servant gathered up the cloth wordlessly, Aurelia decided that he was moving in a manner far too slow for her liking, and grabbed at his pink ear, tugging at it so that he was forced to stand up in front of her. Patricius tried to make no sound, but still winced.

"Mother, stop that," Petronus said flatly, swinging his legs off the side of the wide couch. His mother had a bad habit of abusing her own servants, but he didn't battle for so long at the northern borders to be afraid of her little power-struggles still. "I'll thank you to keep your hands off him."

"Is _this_ your personal servant now?" Aurelia demanded, releasing her pincer-like hold on Patrick's ear and rounding on the centurion with all the power her slim figure could muster.

"That he is. And so he will dress me, Mother." Petronus began to pull at his own tunic and then gave Aurelia an expectant and blank stare. "Oh...you would rather watch?"

Aurelia gave a low-pitched dramatic scream, and whirled out of the cubicula, her _palla_ floating about her with much flair. Petronus sighed, and continued to pull off his tunic as her servants stampeded out after her. He stood up in front of Patricius absolutely naked, and scoffed as the servant averted his eyes.

"Come, now. What is it that I have that you don't?"

"Only that you are dark all over," Patricius replied softly, an acidic shadow of a smile playing at the edge of his lips. Petronus was suprised into an incredulous laugh, now muffled as Patricius stepped forward and pulled the new tunic over his head with quick efficiency, just the way Petronus preferred. He found a narrow strip of cloth as Petronus was shoving his arms out the openings, and tightened it around his master's slim waist, hitching the tunic a bit over this belt. Patricius then took up the long material of the toga, and folded it in half lengthwise, his fingers nimbly inserting pleats into this fold. Petronus watched these pale fingers dance across the cloth, and was entranced. Docila had probably taught him this (obviously she had taken quite a liking to him, constantly exclaiming over his hair) and it was quite clear he was clever enough to have caught on so very quickly. He stepped closer and drapped it over the left-side of  the centurion's body, positioning it over the left shoulder and then reaching around to pass it under Petronus' right arm. He was standing very close, close enough for Petronus to feel the warmth radiating off that pale skin as he worked to wrap the toga securely.

Patricius stepped back and cast a critical eye, that of a perfectionist, and darted forward to smooth down a pleat, only to lean back again, tilting his head.

"I despise wearing this," Petronus told him, his voice rough and sudden, and Patricius' eyes, now coloured darkly in deep concentration, flickered up at him in surprise. He licked his lips before he spoke in a matching lowered pitch.

"I would suppose so," he replied. "It is _very_ heavy. But...possibly you may have to relax your right-arm more. Do not hold it out so stiffly. Pull it more into your side."

The centurion hesitated, and then did as he was told, slowly pressing his arm more, and finding that the toga didn't feel as if it was in danger of slipping off. He nodded in amazed appreciation and Patricius inclined his head in with that same chilly deference as was his apparent wont, his smile smaller, but less bitter.


	3. Chapter 3

_Es patienta et obdura; dolor hic tibi proderit olim.  
Be patient and tough. Some day this pain will be useful to you._

Petronus was too busy grinding his teeth to _enjoy_ the spectacle before him. He hated the games, and as a centurion, he knew that this was quite possibly a very strange thing. But at least, his bloodlust during a battle was well-mannered. Organised for the purpose of defending and glorifying his Roma. The gladiatorial games were a waste of good man and it was a waste of a fine day to be sitting here in this monstrosity of a toga, simply to get Aurelia to cease with her constant harassing that he needed to become more sociable with members of his class. He snorted. Socialising while watching duels to the death. How very charming. He thought it was more an issue of Aurelia wanting to show off more of the fine material she had bought for him.

He leaned forward a little in his seat, looking down the rows of _patricians_ and saw the _princeps_ sitting smugly in a sheltered alcove, surrounded by his guardians. The Caesar loved these games. Petronus had heard it whispered that he held private games in the night, that were far more disastrous than these were ever allowed to be in the day. Pete folded in his lips sternly, and he must have made a small grunt of disapproval, for there was a light touch to the top of his sandalled foot.

"Is everything well, master," Patricius stated more than asked from his position at Pete's feet, but Pete knew that this was his way of forming a question. Everything he said was done in calm, flat tones, and Pete wondered if there was anything he could do to ruffle his servant. Then, he began to ponder why it was important to have him ruffled. He was a competent person, and Pete really could not find any fault in all the months spent watching Patricius. He was not as unsettled as he should have been to realise that he watched his servant a lot, eyes resting on him constantly as he went through his duties or listened to Docila teaching something new. For his part, Patricius did not seem to mind the persistent scrutiny.

"Yes. All is well," Petronus replied, keeping his voice low so that no-one else could hear him answering a servant in such an even tone. He found he couldn't help it, however. He had been raised by one of them, after all. And there was something in him that had watched his mother whip her own servants mercilessly, and had been appalled. In addition to all that, Patricius seemed to command respect from him, in his own understated way.

With a small start in his awareness, he noticed that Patricius had not removed his hand. It was a solid hand, yet it seemed oddly delicate, and Pete found himself looking carefully at the faint lines of tendons striping from the knuckles to the top of the wrist. He compared it to his own rough hands, scarred and burnt, and felt the individual heat of each finger pressing against his foot.

Patricius was still staring up at him, those light eyes giving nothing away.

"Patrick," he said softly, and the servant's eyes widened at the use of this name. He pulled his hand away from Pete's foot, but it was a slow, dragging movement, and for some reason he felt bereft when the fingers finally slid off.

"Forgive me, master," Patrick managed stiffly, returning his gaze to the sunken pit where one gladiator was trying to bash in the head of another, and very nearly succeeding. He flinched as weapon glanced off helmeted head, and without thinking, Pete placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. Immediately, the tense line of Patrick's shoulder went even more rigid, and Pete let his hand fall away.

Pete sighed for no reason he could fathom, and then wrinkled his brow in annoyance as someone blocked his view. He looked up to see a servant of the _augustus_ bending deferentially to him, almost stepping on Patrick in his respectful fervour.

"Please," the other servant murmured, and then inclined his head to where the Caesar was sitting. Pete looked down the immaculately-dressed row again, and saw with a sliver of alarm that the Caesar was actually smiling slightly at him, and then crooking a slim finger in invitation. Petronus got to his feet swiftly, muttering "Follow," to Patricius, and then making his way over with as much speed as he could spare, without making it appear as if he was in a hurry.

When he finally made it to Caligula, the caesar stood and gave him a sly smile. It was with a sinking heart that Pete realised this smile encompassed Patricius as well.

"Petronus," Caligula intoned a sweet sharp voice, and grasped onto Pete lightly, placing a kiss on his cheek; as he pulled back, Pete saw his eyes flicker to Patrick standing behind him, and they took on a feral gleam. "Such a lovely little thing you have here, centurion. Will you loan him to me? I adore the ones with light hair." He rounded Petronus with an eerie speed, and stuck his face near Patrick's. Pete saw him blink rapidly before looking down, but the servant stood his ground.

"And such wondrous eyes!" Caligula took his chin and wrenched it up, so that Patrick's lashes fluttered and he was looking straight into the eyes of the caesar; Pete wondered helplessly if _everyone_ was going to grab at his servant's face in such a manner. He also wondered if his life would be forfeit if he tried to snap off the hand of the caesar that held on to Patrick that way. He forced himself to take long even breaths, as if he was preparing for an attack, and stepped in smoothly, so close that Caligula dropped his hand and looked expectantly at him.

"This one?" Petronus laughed breathlessly, and hoped he was convincing. "He is such a difficult one, my lord. I would certainly not think to loan such a trouble to you."

"Oh?" Caligula countered, and his thin face looked highly interested. "I do so love a challenge."

There was a roar from the crowd, and Caligula peered around them impatiently, flinging curses at the winning fighter and the cheering spectators.

"I have always wished we could throw some of those idiots in the pit," Caligula told Petronus firmly, and then smiled in his mad way. "But my advisors have said that the people will abhor me. What do you think, centurion?"

Petronus looked at him steadily. "They might be correct."

Caligula grinned too widely, and then touched Patrick on the shoulder, running his hand down the pale bared arm that had a band of copper wrapped above the elbow.

"Let them hate me. So long as they fear me," Caligula replied almost conversationally, and then squeezed Patrick's wrist so that the servant actually winced. "Bring him to me tomorrow, Petronus. Refuse me not."

*

"What will he do to me," Patrick asked in his flat way suddenly as he readied Pete's bathwater that night, the candlelight flickering as if in comfort against his short frame. Pete almost detected a trembling note in his voice, and clamped down on a strange sudden wave of protectiveness that pushed through him. This servant was his _property_ after all; of course he would feel upset that the _princeps_ would casually demand him as if it was a simple matter. Pete sighed. Once, Caligula had been firm and clever, yet loyal to his people. After his strange and protracted illness, it seemed as if a new, insatiable creature had emerged from the sickbed, and Petronus felt as if the man was possessed. Roma did not need such a man as their ruler, but he was just a soldier. He was not quite sure what to do. As he was not sure what to do now.

"He will take you," Pete hedged, removing his toga with characteristic relish. Patrick's hands were on him, helping to unfurl the lengths, and folding it with practiced care. The servant's hands seemed to press more here, linger more there and Petronus let him. He found he liked it very much.

"Take me. As in..."

"Bed you," Petronus snapped and pulled away from the shocked weight of Patrick's hands. He glared at his servant, now in an irrational pique, and scoffed at the look in Patricius' eyes. "Don't tell me you don't know the way it sometimes is in Roma. And you are _in_ Roma, little highborn, so it would be wise to _do_ as Romans."

"What if I do not want him to...take me." Patricius picked up the small bowl to pour water as Pete clambered into the bath. "And I am aware of how it is here. It is not shocking to me."

"You'll do what he wants, as I do what he wants," Pete bit out, ignoring the sulky tone of Patrick's last comment.

"I do not want _him_ ," Patricius said, low. "If I had a choice, he would not be my first. Master."

As the water poured over his head, Petronus closed his eyes and suppressed a smile at the way Patrick had tacked on the title at the end of his sentence. He always did it as if he would never get used to it, as if he was at the wrong end of that name being given. Petronus rolled his head to the side, thinking deeply as Patrick scrubbed at his neck.

"I could give you a choice," he commented on a whim, hearing his voice go slow and sly like Caligula's and disliking himself for it; but not as much as he thought he would, because he suddenly knew what he wanted. He opened his eyes slowly and looked at Patrick, who had gone completely still. "It is highly unusual for a slave to have such an option. But wouldn't you like a choice?"

Patrick's eyes had gone dark and shuttered; but he nodded slowly.

"Would you prefer," Petronus continued, taking the small bowl out of Patrick's hand and placing it carefully on the floor, "for your choice to be made now?"

Still the gaze was fixed and unreadable; yet he nodded again. Petronus took him by the wrist and tugged, and his servant simply climbed into the stone bath, fully dressed in his white tunic. Pete shifted and made space so that he was being straddled by the strange and sturdy weight, and he felt a deep thrill at the knowledge that this weight was Patrick. It felt right. Patrick cleared his throat.

"Master, have you...I mean to say.."

Petronus snickered at his sudden discomfiture. It was a rare moment that Patricius allowed himself to appear less than collected.

"Well, you won't be _my_ first, that is certain. Be calm," he asserted, pulling at Patricius' tunic with deep concentration. "I will try not to harm you."

The soaked tunic was removed and draped over the edge of the bath, and Petronus was admiring miles of milky skin when Patricius spoke again.

"I know."

Pete looked up at him with sharp eyes, and then smirked. Patrick appeared taken aback before he gave a very small smile, and Pete ran a covetous hand up the same arm that Caligula had touched earlier, as if he was trying to wipe away even the very memory of it. It was all very surreal, as if Pete was caught up in a vivid dream, and to prove to himself on the authenticity of the whole situation, he threaded his fingers through the fine wisps of Patrick's hair at the nape of his neck, and pulled him forward until their mouths were nearly touching.

"I know how the caesar is," Pete whispered, his lips brushing against that full lower lip he knew he had been fixating on, but had refused to admit it. Patrick shivered against him. "He will not touch you like this because it is not the way he likes it. He likes when people cry in pain." He tilted his head, and he felt more than saw Patrick's mouth part, and his breath shuddered out against Pete's lips. Still, Pete did not move any closer, relishing the way Patrick's body relaxed in degrees against him.

"I can be gentle," he continued. "And I can be rough. Which would you like?"

He was surprised to feel Patricius' hands stroke slowly up his chest, and that alone made him extremely hard. Patrick rested his hands on Pete's shoulders and squeezed.

"Is it possible to be both at the same time?" And he arched forward, finally closing that small increment between them. Pete could feel the hesitant warmth of his mouth, the way he made a small surprised and appreciative sound as Pete slid his tongue out and indolently flicked at the corner of his mouth. He was getting as hard as Pete was, and there was really no time to be thinking about Docila and the other servants; he did not care, in any case.

"It will hurt, at first," Pete tried to say as sternly as he could when Patrick finally backed off.

"Will it be worth the pain?"

Pete smiled slightly. It seemed like a very calculating thing to say.

" _You_ will have to tell _me_."

*

The water was very cold when Pete finally managed to make Patrick moan in pleasure; he had promised himself that he would not move until he had broken past Patrick's reserve in this manner, but it turned out to be a formidable task. Patricius seemed to have a very extreme level of self-control. No matter, Pete had thought to himself. He was a centurion. He knew tactics.

One of which was careful biting along Patrick's collarbone, but this only produced stifled whimpers. He attempted slow long licks along the line of his jaw, but there were simply breathless sighs as a response. He went in for a tri-fold attack, stroking one of his hands up Patrick's back while kissing him lightly and using another hand to caress his chest. He pulled back, still not satisfied with the almost desperate way Patrick was panting, and he raised his hips and pressed the aching hardness of himself right against him, stroking lazily, and that was when Patrick capitulated, finally allowing a low thrumming sound to hover between the both of them. Petronus felt deeply victorious, and grasped at him, pulling Patricius closer as if he belonged underneath his skin, and he kept making that decadent sound until Pete's mind was filled to overflowing with it.

Petronus pushed him back, feeling dizzy, and stared at Patricius' face, set so close to his. Those eyes that everyone insisted on peering into were almost black in the dim light, and Pete felt a stronge surge of hatred for Caligula, who would most certainly wipe away that languid look and replace it with fear and anguish. All through this, he was trying to think of a way to keep what was his away from the caesar, without damaging his position or reputation, but there seemed to be no way out. He could go to Chaerea, a fine officer who had served Caligula's father, and had known the current caesar since childhood, but he remembered that Caligula mocked him consistently and nastily about serious wound to his manhood. After Chaerea, there was no-one else Petronus liked or trusted enough to approach.

He sighed, and Patrick looked crestfallen.

"Am I doing something wrong?" The fact that this was given in a distinct question was a sign of his uncertainty. Pete raised his hand and rested it on his cheek, marvelling at the stark colouring of his fingers against the pale skin.

"No," he replied simply, and then made to get up. Patrick shivered as the cold air hit his skin, and Pete stood and dragged him over to the low palette where he took his nightly rest. He grabbed one of the oils that Patrick liberally used on his hair and skin, and pushed him gently onto his back.

"If I cannot hide you from him tomorrow," Petronus murmured, " _Memor hoc_."

 _Remember this._

Remember Petronus' oiled fingers invading his body slowly and gently, pushing and twirling and causing Patricius to writhe at the strange slick feeling, and then jump as some sensitive spot was stroked against. Remember the painful pressure of Pete breaching him, filling him, and the strained noises his master was making to hold himself back. Remember the way Patrick arched up and managed to look submissive and demanding at the same time, eyes confused and knowledgeable when Pete began to move against him, small back-and-forth actions, and then when Patrick got more comfortable with the sensation, longer, greedier strokes, urging more gasps and whimpers from the little highborn.

Remember the unihibited groans and the surprised look on Petronus' face when Patrick decided to boldly slide one of his legs up a toned buttock and around his back, opening himself more, offering more.

Remember. Remember the sharp shivers of delight, the whipcrack of Patrick's body shuddering into completion and clenching Petronus along with him, conquering, defeated, and not knowing the difference between the two.

*

Patricius pushed at him, and Petronus felt too boneless to complain, but he still kept ahold of Patrick even as the servant tried to escape.

"Are you in too much pain?" He asked, trying to be brusque and failing, pulling Patrick onto the curve of his arms. There was a long still moment before Patrick relaxed.

"Not too much."

"I will give you something to help soon. Rest for now." He could tell that Patricius wanted to move away, and he held onto him tighter, until he ceased with the restless squirming.

"Master?"

He made a non-commital sound, and felt his breath push against the light hair. He would squeeze even more, but he would most likely break a rib, and refrained.

"Petronus." Pete's eyes flew open, and found Patricius with a small unwillling smile on his face. There was no fear in it, and he realised that there never was. "Pete. I will not forget."


	4. Chapter 4

_Tempora mutant, et mutimus in illis  
The times change, and we change with them._

Petronus allowed himself to awaken very slowly, a habit that was not familiar to him. He was not quite used to even sleeping; being a fighter had conditioned his body to be constantly vigilant. He opened his eyes, the long sooty lashes parting; he literally felt his eyes adjust to the low light in his _cubicula_ , the curtains preventing the mid-morning sun from too much invasion.

He gazed up at the smooth thick rafters that held up the clay tiles, and a little smile played on his face, filled with pride at this house. It had been his father's before him, and he adored the walls of dressed-stone, laid in regular courses. The _pavimentum_ , the flooring of the house, was laid with mosaic patterns. He was particularly pleased with the main door of the house, heavy and made of solid bronze. It had been replaced by himself on the first anniversary of his father's death.

He shifted a little on the large low _lectus_ , feeling the wool-filled mattress shift cozily beneath him. He started to frown, noting Patricius' absence, when a hand touched his arm carefully.

Patrick was sitting fully-dressed in his usual spot, on a small stool right beside the low bed and Pete glowered even more. He felt that this was not where Patrick should be.

"Will you break your fast now, Master," Patrick said, more of a command than a question and then pushed a large flat plate that lay on top of the wrinkled sheets closer to Pete. The centurion placed his palms flat on the bed and pushed himself up into a sitting position; he hid a smirk as Patrick averted his eyes quickly from his exposed chest. Pete inspected the plate of fruits, cheese and bread, and then fixed an unreadable stare on Patrick.

Patrick's light brows drew together in consternation, but Pete did not move nor break his gaze. A slight flush suddenly rose on the servant's cheeks, and he bent forward and plucked an olive between a pale thumb and forefinger. He leaned even closer, pressing the olive against Pete's lower lip; Pete smiled a little, parted his lips, and the olive slid in measuredly, Patrick's fingers right behind it. Pete made sure to close his mouth around the retreating fingers, sucking on them and watching Patrick's light eyes widen as he allowed them to slowly side from the warm suction of his mouth.

Patrick seemed to be at a total loss as to what next to do. He was staring at Pete as if he had never seen him before, his hand returning slowly to the top of the bed as if he was in a dream. Pete simply returned his stare, reclining on the pillows.

"More, please," he said softly, and without even glancing at the plate, Patrick took up a small wedge of cheese and fed him again. This time, Pete grabbed him by the wrist, and gave a deliberate swipe of tongue right from the fleshy base to the tip of his thumb before nipping the slice off his fingers, and Patrick's breath shuddered out of him, almost as if it had been pulled out by Pete's mouth on his hand.

Patrick continued to feed him in that slow slumberous way, the rest of the morning impossibly far outside of their curtained privacy. When there was only plump grape left, Patrick had to look down at the platter to locate it, and he bit his lip. He took it up, and fixing his eyes back on Pete's face, he placed the grape in his own mouth, teeth pressing into it slightly, his body swaying towards Pete almost without thought.

More delighted than he allowed himself to display, Pete went up on his knees, the dark skin of his arms flexing smoothly as he caught Patrick's face in his hands, tilting it up slightly and pressing their mouths together. He could taste Patrick's moan fill his mouth with the sharp sweetness of the grape as he bit off the piece in front of Patrick's teeth. He pulled back only a little, chewing slowly on his bit of grape while looking right down in the servant's dazed eyes and then he remembered.

Caligula wanted this very same servant today.

Pete suddenly bent his head again and kissed him desperately, as if he needed to brand Patrick's mouth. Indeed, when he pulled away, Patrick's full mouth was red and swollen, and Pete pressed two of his fingers against them, wondering if Caligula would strip the memory of Pete's mouth away. He was thinking of dragging Patrick back underneath the cool sheets to keep him away from the caesar, when he heard his mother's voice rattle through the halls. Pete sighed and pulled away, sitting back into the _lectus_ as Aurelia burst in, raucous in her pleasure that the caesar had 'chosen' one of Pete's servants.

Patrick kept his head down.

*

Docila pleaded Petronus not to take Patrick to the caesar. There was a particularly embarrasing moment in the _peristylum_ , where a few of the other servants stood in the open yard in front of the kitchen and wept openly. Petronus frowned heavily at them, but it was a bit difficult to be imposing when Docila was grasping at the hem of his toga, kneeling in the dusty grass and weeping. Petronus opened his mouth to scold them thoroughly, but Patricius spoke up first.

"That is enough," he said, his voice rough and strangely expressionless at the same time. The effect was almost immediate. To Pete's unending surprise, Docila rose up from the ground and embraced the fair servant, and Patrick put his arms around her, squeezing her plump frame lightly. Petronus pulled him away.

*

Pete had been aware of the Palantine Games, but the sheer grandeur of it served to awe him. Contestants were milling everywhere, and he could feel Patrick pressed near to him by the crowd. Abruptly, he folded his fingers around Patrick's hand, trying to tell him _I want that I could keep you_. He tried to make himself believe that Patrick's responding squeeze meant _so do I_.

He suddenly found himself face to face with Cassius Chaerea, a former centurion and now the head of the Praetorian Guard, dressed in simple robes. He straightened his shoulders and addressed the other soldier firmly.

"Greetings to you as well, Petronus," Chaerea responded in his unusual high voice, at odds with his harsh, solid appearance. He looked at Patrick, and Pete resigned himself to the fact that Chaerea would grab at him, just as everyone else liked to do. "So this is the beauty our emperor has been waiting for. Please look at me, servant."

Patrick gave his master a quick glance, suprised as well that he was not being manhandled, then looked at Chaerea, his chin tilting in a faint display of his former defiance. Pete could almost imagine him spitting out _touch me not_ , and stifled a sudden smile.

"Lovely," Chaerea said in a low, bitter voice, and Pete inspected him closely. Chaerea's skin was flushed and his eyes were hollow in his head, and Pete's amusement died down; Chaerea looked like the walking dead. "Our caesar will spoil him just as he has spoilt everything else, wouldn't it be so, Petronus?

"Chaerea-" Pete started, reaching out to clasp the other centurion by the arm, but he grabbed at thin air as Chaerea stepped back, the hollow eyes shuttering at them. He smiled thinly at servant and master, and then turned away quickly.

"Fret not, Petronus. It will be that he remains yours."

Petronus hurried after him, pushing against people, feeling Patrick close to his heels. He spotted the caesar talking to a group of young men who were dressed as actors; the strange feeling that had started lightly in Pete's chest deepened down to a strong sense of foreboding as he watched Chaerea advance on the _princeps_. The caesar was giving a mad giggle, and Petronus shoved harder through the crowd.

 _No,_ he thought, and wondered what he was negating. _Chaerea, no-_

He saw Chaerea go close to the emperor and murmur in his ear, and Caligula replied sly. He was literally hurling people out of his way, when he saw something bright flash in the late afternoon sun, and Caligula shrieked.

Caligula's toga went red.

In an instant, there were shouts and screams, people stampeding frantically and when Petronus lunged forward, intending to grapple with Chaerea, there were others surrounding the screaming emperor, knives stabbing at Caligula, blood on their hands. Pete got too close and one of the assassins' sharp knives slashed back and forth in a large arc, catching Pete in the side twice. Patrick held fast to his upper arm as pain flared in his ribs, and dragged him back.

"Master, stop," Patrick breathed harshly at him, and Pete made to fling him off. Patrick's grip became iron, and he gave Pete a warning shake. "Pete. _Pete_ , look. He's nearly dead."

Patrick pushed him against a wall, and moved a little, so that Pete could see them still attacking the mutilated form, too much blood gurgling out of the numerous wounds. Chaerea was standing a little apart now, and his hollow eyes caught Pete's dark, horrified ones. Chaerea's eyelids fluttered shut, and he smiled.

The assasins began to step back, and to his amazement, Pete recognised other Preatorian guards and some members of the equestrian order. A strange hush fell across the scene, and he could not draw his eyes away as Caligula raised a trembling blood-soaked hand from where he lay on the ground. The Praetorian Aquila, a man Petronus respected almost as much as he had Chaerea, bent down swiftly, and thrust his knife straight into the emperor's chest.

Caligula's hand fell.

Pete hardly registered a shout, and vaguely noted the German guard rushing in, obviously responding to Caligula's first cry, but it all had happened too quickly; his side was caught up in a sharp lancing pain, and he pressed his hand against the wound, squeezing at the flow. The screams were starting up again, and he felt Patrick back into him, pressing him against the wall.

"Pete," Patrick said, his voice rasping. He peered over his servant's shoulder, trying to keep conscious, and groaned. The German guard, seemingly stricken with rage, began to attack everyone nearby, their swords slinging rapidly, catching at assassins and innocent by-standers alike. He pushed at Patrick's back, ignoring the pain and calculating the best line of escape or defense. He was unarmed, and he observed dimly as one of the German guard sliced off the arm of one of the young actors, and then began to advance on their position.

"You, Roman!" The Guard spat in clumsy latin, his sword pointing straight at them, and Pete assured himself that he and Patrick would be skewered to the hot wall on his back. "Murderer. You will suffer, both."

Patrick was not moving, no matter how hard Pete was trying to push him away and Pete heard him begin to speak, but it was not in Petronus' native tongue. Patrick was snarling out something in imperious tones, sharp choked syllables, and the German guard stumbled in surprise; then he responded in the same guttural language, his voice tinged in doubt. Patrick flicked a look over his shoulder at Pete, and then spoke again to the guard, who lowered his sword and then nodded. He spun on his heel, marching away stiffly, and Pete slid down the wall to sit down on the ground. He stared as Patrick knelt beside him, pressing fingers into his side, lips pulled into a fine line on his pale face.

"What...what did you say to him?" he asked, ache tremoring up his side as Patrick ripped at his own tunic and pressed a wadding of it at his ribs; Patrick gave him a level look.

"I told him who I was. And that you belonged to me."

Pete continued to stare, his vision wavering, the heated screeching world around them seeming to fade. He was safe.

"Who are you?" Pete whispered, trying to keep awake. His eyes slipped shut, and he heard Patrick's muted response.

"I am Patricius, of your house. I belong to you."


	5. Chapter 5

_Bella detesta matribus  
-War, the horror for mothers._

Petronus awoke quickly, but did not open his eyes. He lay there, feeling the scratchy warmth of the pallet beneath him, the still cool air pressing against his bare chest. He idly checked his injuries. There seemed to be no broken bones and the gash in his side had the tiny dots of pain that spoke to him of careful stitching. He held his breath for just a moment, listening. There was someone sitting nearby, quite still; he could hear their steady inhalations.

"Tell me who you are," he said, noting how rusty his voice sounded. A damp cloth patted briefly at his brow, fingers brushing wayward strands out of his eyelashes. "Tell me who you are, Patricius."

"That is not of any importance. Sleep."

Pete struggled against the gentle command, but he slipped back down into a soft darkness.

*

Petronus would not admit to anyone that he was sorely disappointed the next time he woke up, alone. He was _alone_ , right hand placed over his chest, flat on his back. Patricius was nowhere to be found. The soft colours of a new-born day filtered into the room, tentatively lighting the stone walls. He took a deep breath and dug his elbows in right next to his ribs and pushed against the soft covering. He sat up slowly, gritting his teeth against the strikepoints of pain; almost at the very same time the door was pushed open and Patrick came in with a large tray, surprise washing over his pale features.

"You should not do that," Patricius said tightly, not moving from the doorway. He actually glared at Petronus, his eyes flashing. Pete stopped trying to sit straight and simply looked at him.

"Do not presume to tell me what I cannot do. Remember your place," Petronus snapped and Patricius' eyes narrowed.

"I have not forgotten my place. It is to take care of _you_...and you are undoing all my work."

Petronus gave him another long stare and then begrudgingly lay back down. The stitches in his side felt rigid, the skin overly brittle. He did not look as Patricius set down the tray close by and then hovered over him.

"Let me help you," Patricius offered in a now strangely shy voice. His hand snaked behind Pete's neck and shuffled under his shoulders. Petronus felt pressure against his back and allowed himself to be pushed upwards. Patrick held him with one arm, arranging the large cushions with the other; Patrick's supporting arm loosened from around him until he found himself resting against the soft raised mound. Patricius settled beside him, pulling the tray unto his own lap. "Will you eat something?"

"Will you feed me?" Petronus had not meant to sound so highly interested but Patricius flushed. "I meant--"

"If that is what you wish. Here," and he dipped a broad spoon in a shallow bowl and brought it carefully to Pete's mouth, hovering his free hand underneath the utensil so that any spillage would be caught. The broth was strong and salty; Pete slurped and his servant ( _his caretaker_ ) made a tiny smile. "Good?"

Petronus nodded.

"I've never had it like this before," he said, opening his mouth for another spoonful. Patrick's forehead furrowed.

"What do you mean? Docila said it was your favourite." Another careful serving, Patricius slowly tipping the spoon, watchfully swiping the edge of the spoon against his mouth to catch any stray droplets. _Like a child_ , Petronus thought and felt too warm. Parts of his body disagreed fervently with this comparison, as he kept his eyes trained on Patrick, the way his fingers curled around the spoon lightly, or how he pursed his mouth when making sure none of the broth sloshed out. Patrick's eyes were steady on the spoon, for the most part, until it slipped between Petronus' lips; then his gaze would skitter up to Pete's face, unblinking and clear. Pete could see his own reflection, bent in the blue of Patrick's eyes. At this distance, he could see the different flecks of colour, flickers of green, as well as shards of amber; he marvelled at how prefectly round and black the iris was. Patrick coaxed him with another spoonful.

Pete swallowed. "Fed to me. I think that is the way I'll have it from now on."

"By anyone?" Slow brush of the spoon under his bottom lip.

"No." Warm liquid against his palate, those eyes fixed on his as he swallowed. "I have but one person in mind for this... _activity_."

Patrick held his stare for a moment longer and then regarded the almost-empty bowl. He set it on the tray and reached for the crusty dark bread, the one Petronus' mother refused to consume. He broke it into small fragrant pieces and placed one in Pete's hand, who ate it thoughtfully and then sighed.

"Have they crowned a new Emperor?"

Patricius stiffened and then nodded, eating one morsel of bread almost absently. "The uncle. I do not recall--"

"Claudius."

"Yes. That is the name." There was a pause that went on for a few beats too long and then Patrick spoke up, voice low and hesitant. "What...is he as his nephew?"

Pete felt something inside him spindle into a tight coil, remembering what Caligula had asked for. The look in his eyes as he had assessed Patrick, the sharp desire. Pete vaguely wondered if that feral look was present in his own eyes as well, whenever he regarded the servant. He felt he could not be comfortable with himself if it was that plain.

"No. He isn't."

Patrick bit his lip and did not move. Petronus wondered what Patrick thought when he found Pete's eyes resting on him like that. Did he flinch inwardly, caught up in the misery of servitude to a centurion, a true little _patricius_?

"Tell me who you are," he said softly, instead of asking what he really needed to know in that moment. Patrick, whose body was still uncomfortably tense, shifted away from him and was stopped by Pete's hand clenching on his wrist. "Tell me."

"It does not matter anymore," Patrick said and he began to twist his arm in Pete's grasp. "Why do you care? It should not matter to you." He had almost freed himself when Pete slid his hand around the captured wrist, so that he was gripping the underside of Patrick's hand, feeling the hurried beat at the base of the palm.

"It is important to me. It always was. I want to know who you are. Your family name. What you were like--"

Patrick made a small noise in the back of his throat, like an trapped animal, desperate and wild. "Who I _am_ and who I _was_ are now as far as the east is to the west," he ground out, now practically leaning his whole body away. Pete felt the careful stitches stretch painfully under his efforts to pull Patrick closer and he released him, bracing his side with his palm and exhaling through his mouth, breathing out the pain.

"They are in the same body. I want to know the whole person."

"So. This is of great concern to you." The whole sentence was low sigh, Patrick's eyes cast down at his interlaced fingers.

"Yes. I consider it so."

"If I refused, would you force me to tell you?"

Pete pressed his side gingerly and nodded.

"Cherusci is the name of my family.... _Cherusker_." The gutteral pronounciation of the last seemed as if it floated deep out of Patrick's throat.

Petronus froze, his eyes agonizingly wide. There seemed to be a strange pressure on his forehead, a pulsing ache. His mouth parted to speak, but nothing came out of it. Patrick nodded blankly.

"That is...a strong name," Petronus finally managed. "A royal German name."

"Yes."

A gruff voice murmured in the back of Petronus' mind, the bittersweet recollection of his father's calm tones.

 _Very clever and strong, they were, those Germans. The two Cherusci princes were sent to be fully Romanized, did you know that, my young one? Yes, now you do. One of the royal brothers even took a Roman name, Flavius...the other still kept his German name....what was it, you ask? Hermann, was what he was called by his own people, and his roman name was Arminius. They had such strange eyes._

According to his mother, his grandfather had been impressed at Hermann's capacity for learning,especially when the German was made a senior soldier under General Varus, just as Petronus' own grandfather was. This grandfather, the father of his father, a person Petronus could deeply revere only through familial histories, had perished in a disastrous battle at a large sad forest called Teutoburg; the Germans led led by the very same prince Hermann and his allied tribes, to completely demolish three entire legions of Roman soldiers. _Fifteen thousand_ men, utterly destroyed by guerilla tactics that Hermann had garnered from the Romans themselves.

 _Strong and clever_.

After such a defeat, Rome was loathe to cross the Rhine to contest them. Rome knew what its limits were, even during years of persistent battle following his grandfather's death. The only comfort Petronus drew from this was the fact that Hermann was assasinated by his own people, the very same ones he fought to unite; and Germania was a place of battling, backstabbing tribes again, each eager to overrule the others. His own father had died in another skirmish with the Cherusci, days before Hermann's murder. Petronus had been four.

 _Such strange eyes_.

Clearly, he saw the memory of his mother Aurelia weeping over the still body of his father, shrieking as the pyre was lit and his father's sturdy frame went up in flames. He remembered asking her what she was doing to his father, reaching for him as she hauled him back by one small arm. Overlaid this, he focused on Patrick's eyes, so clear and yet divulging nothing.

"Leave me be," he said in a low voice, barely escaping a growl; Patricius rose, the set of his shoulders sharp within the soft folds of his _tunica_. Petronus closed his eyes as the door closed softly.


	6. Chapter 6

_Audi et alteram partem  
Hear the other side too_

Petronus kept his head straight, ignoring the presence of the warm body seated on the small stool at his feet.

At the very least, he was making a valiant attempt to do so. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the fair head turn and gaze up at him questioningly, a hand reaching out to touch the hem of his woollen garment. Petronus turned his head away slightly, glaring at the dressed stone walls of the _triclinium_ and feeling strangely contrary. The rest of the household busied themselves around their island of calm, steadfastly going about their duties as Pete ate his evening meal at the finely carved table, chewing slowly. He was not allowing Patrick to serve him.

"You are angry with me," Patricius spoke up suddenly and Docila, who was pouring a flagon of sweet _mulsum_ , paused in her movements and blinked down at the rigid figure. Petronus continued to dine relentlessly, tearing into slices of circular flat bread. "There is no reason for you to be angry with me. I am not to blame for the death of your father."

Pete felt the gritty bread catch in his throat as he stared down at the servant. Patrick's eyes were downcast, the lashes long and fair, seeming to quiver in the uncertain flickering light of the lamps. It was the first time he had deigned to look directly at Patrick; even when his wounds had been tended to, he had simply pretended that Patrick did not exist. It was childish behaviour, he knew that, but he found no other way to deal with the strange set of emotions he was experiencing.

"How _dare_ you," he said now, his voice dark with displeasure. They were suddenly alone in the eating hall, the rest of the servants fleeing before the impending wrath of their master. "Keep your silence. I did not require your opinion."

"I _dare_." Patrick's retort was low; even so, it seemed to echo in the room and Petronus found himself gaping at the furious blue eyes. "You think it is unfair that you have lost your father to a war? I have lost my entire house. I have lost my freedom. You Romans think that you are the center of all that--"

"Continue to speak and I will strip the flesh from your bones," Pete hissed and Patrick returned his gaze to the ground, breathing harshly. The loss of his temper was as shocking to Pete as his servant's blatant disrespect and Pete shoved his plate away from himself, far too incensed to eat. He rose, gathering his garments around himself so that the hem of it would not brush his servant and strode out of the room, heading to his sleeping area. He passed quickly through the atrium, hearing the quick rustle of Patrick behind him.

He paused suddenly in front of one of the _alae_ , one of the small alcoves where the wax bust of his father was kept, the plain lines of the familiar face in shadow. There was a scattering of dust on the floor of the _ala_ and he made a mental note to inform Docila to have them all cleaned. He smiled a little at the calm expression on the little statue, a visage he always wore in life, according to Pete's faint memory. His father had always been a laughing man, clever and quiet. He started as a pale hand invaded his line of sight, gently wiping the dust from where the bust rested. Pete stared at the fingers as they brushed fastidiously and he reached out, taking the hand and pushing it out of the alcove.

"Forgive me," Patricius said, sounding far from apologetic. Pete shook his head, closing his eyes. This slave riled him beyond measure; so why did he not trade him? He was staring at the folds of his father's tunica draped over the little wax shoulder, when Patrick spoke up again. "Forgive me."

Petronus finally looked at him, surprised at the near-pleading tone. Patrick _never_ begged; he was proud, more so than Pete himself and even more stubborn, a trait that Pete did not have the heart to strike him for. Secretly, it was a trait Pete himself admired; Patrick would never succumb... or he had _thought_ Patrick would have never reached such a point.

"As my _master_ ," Patrick said, cheeks going pink. "You are right in all things. Even if you are _wrong_." He bit his lip as Pete snorted in disbelief and then forged ahead. "If I must beg you forgiveness to...so that you will treat me as you had before, then I will. Forgive me."

Such a grudging apology. Pete raised an eyebrow, feeling a slow smirk curling his mouth.

"How did I treat you before, little noble one?" He stepped closer, tilting his head to whisper in Patrick’s ear. It was improper, to be standing so close to a slave right here in the open, but Pete could not help himself. He grasped onto Patrick's hand, the same one that he had been using to rid the small alcove of the slight layer of dust, feeling the fingers clench onto his. Highly improper, and Pete wondered what Docila would think if she happened upon them. He found that he hardly cared.

"As if I belonged to you." Patrick turned his head, breathing shallowly as their cheeks brushed. "Do I belong to your house?"

"Is that important to you?" Pete could not resist: he licked the ear experimentally, hearing Patrick gasp. "Yes, you belong to this house."

"And to you?"

The question hung between them and Pete slid his gaze over to the considering face of his father. A Roman did not willingly _cavort_ with his possessions. At least, not in plain view, especially if they were male; no matter if they had soft pale skin and strange eyes.

 _He is not a possession of mine_ , Pete thought to his father, feeling Patrick's breath on the side of his face. _I never was his master_.

"You told the German that I belonged to you," Petronus reminded him, pressing a hand against Patrick's waist, moving his hand down to feel the smooth clothed curve of hip under his rough fingers. He inhaled the slightly smoky smell of the servant, caused by spending so much time in the kitchens. Patrick's hands fluttered over his injured side, finally settling tentatively on Pete's own hip.

"Come," Pete said gruffly, grasping him by the wrist and hurrying him along to his sleeping quarters. Something seemed to crack and then crumble inside him when he realised that Patrick was following him willingly, not dragging his feet or holding his hand at an awkward angle. Whatever strange thing had been between them from the start, slave and master, had changed into something even more strange. Petronus supposed the word he wanted to use was _wonderful_.

As he arrived at the entrance to his room, Pete realized that his delight was tinged with fear: that once he had found something so perfect, it would be spoiled.

"This... this is for as long as I have breath," he told Patrick nonsensically as they crossed the threshold, Patrick's fingers intertwined in his. He frowned, trying to find the best words. "I can never give you up now."

Patricius gave him a steady look and then pulled away. He walked over to the pallet and sat down, regarding Pete solemnly until a slow smile dawned on his face.

"That is good." He held out a hand invitingly and Pete went to him quickly, gripping onto it and, without even thinking about what he was doing, raised it to press the pale skin against his mouth. "Nor will I."

Pete sighed allowed him to remove both their clothing, Patrick pulling off the material in slow strokes, sliding his fingertips deliberately against Pete's heated skin, until the centurion was half-delirious with want. When he finally found himself wrapped up with Patrick, feeling him tremble under light touches, he thought to himself, _I do not have to die to go to that Land in the West. I am already there._

***

"The winds are changing," Patricius said quietly as Petronus was happily eating his breakfast, early one morning in his rooms. As usual, Pete had arranged that Patrick sat close to him as he ate, so that his hand would be resting on some part of Patrick's body at all times. It felt good to touch him.

"What do you mean?" Pete held out a small slice of bread; Patrick gave him a dubious stare and then bent forward for it, slowly. Pete quickly pulled it back and placed it in his mouth so that a piece of it still hung out. Without a pause, Patrick continued forward, biting the morsel that was left and making sure to brush their lips together. Pete grinned. "There is a change between us, to be certain. It is our secret."

"Yes." Patrick's smile was indulgent. Warm... then it faded a little as he turned his head and looked out the window, into the dreamy dusty distance. "Yet, there is more." He returned his gaze to Pete and lifted one shoulder apologetically. "Mayhap I am wrong."

Pete blinked at him and then set aside his plate gently, then took one of Patrick's hands in his.

"At least you are right about me?"

Patricius laughed and Pete smiled at the open cheer.

"Fate gave me no choice, _master_. And I was wrong about you." He squeezed Petronus' hand. "I'm glad I was wrong."

***

Claudius was claimed _Princeps_ in AD 43, not long after the bloody death of his nephew Caligula. Two years later, he sent four legions to conquer Brittania.

The winds died as Petronus marched to war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _triclinium: dining room  
>  mulsum: 4 parts wine, 1 part honey._


	7. Chapter 7

_Non sum qualis eram  
-I am not such as I was_

A war is not fought by the warrior only. It is also fought, year after struggling year, by worried mothers, friends, countrymen. Lovers. Battled in the secret sorrowful places of their hearts, where the only wish is for them, all of _them_ , to come home.

Petronus dwelled on this constantly as his men fought around him. It was a calming notion to hold onto. He was tired; mud and smoke and blood pooled all around and within, seeming as if he had been born to constantly hear the shouts and screams of battle. Yet, he pushed and fought. Pete was not one to give up, and he did not allow anyone else around him do so. This was just his way, he supposed, arms weary from carrying sword and shield, legs cramped behind the greaves. This was the way of the centurion.

The British resistance was fierce, strong, led by two songs of a British king, Cunobelinus. At one point in the months of fighting, the Roman legions were forced back to the Thames, a grim moment where all he did was blink tired eyes at the sky and think of a person who belonged to his house, and had the same shade of eyes when smiling.

"Fight," he said to his men in short, rough tones, as they gathered neatly in the _Legio IX Hispana_ at the banks of the wide river, led by Gnaeus Hosidius Greta, a man Pete admired. Hosidius Greta had almost been captured at a crossing at previous river, called Medway, two days of sheer viciousness; but in a fit of action, had fought back with a ferocity that gained him the respect of the legionnaires. That had been when Pete had been less tired, less anxious to simply run home.

What had Patricius done to him? Now, all he wanted to do was find his way to his familiar, comfortable room and look at _him_. It was such a strange thing to want, almost irrational in its simplicity. It was a feeling that was a little unwelcome, for he could not concentrate. He found that he gave his orders in a half-hearted, almost desultory fashion; his men did not seem to notice this, for their reactions to him were the same as always: well-trained and without question

Tired. So very tired.

Some of the people he fought against had eyes the same colour as Patrick's, but disturbingly frantic during combat, quite unlike Patrick's aloof, chilly visage; yet, he found he was shaken when their gazes fixed on him, expressions dying with the tip of his sword. He had to remind himself of who he was, who he was doing this for. Rome. Family.

To return to Patrick.

"Fight," he told the men of his _centuria_. "Fight and let us be home."

*

"Togodumnus has fallen," one of the messengers told him in a scratchy voice shortly after the battle on the banks of the Thames and Pete searched his memory for a reminder of who Togodumnus was, as he and his men crouched in waiting, Quiriac pawing the ground eagerly. Now he remembered: Togodumnus had been one of the sons of Cunobelinus, the now deceased king of the Catuvellauni, who were the people who had been defending their land so ferociously against the might of the Roman legions.

"The other?" Pete asked, referring to Caracatus.

"He is not to be found. The Emperor is on his way. Here."

Pete smiled with a distinct lack of mirth, causing the messenger to scurry off on the excuse of having to deliver more announcements. So, that is why they had halted battle at this time. Their victory had been nearly complete; now, the Emperor’s presence would have him as the conqueror when they marched forward. _The leaders speak and the warrior fights_ , he consoled himself as he gave the order to move out, onwards to Camulodunum.

Onwards, onwards. Camulodunum, where the eleven tribes of Britons surrendered, awed by the display of Claudius' war-elephants and brightly shining armaments, not by the fighting men trudging alongside. Onwards, onwards, even after the new Roman capital had been established at Camulodunum and the Emperor returned to Rome to be safe in his victory; onwards, onwards, subduing even more tribes in the west under the command of Vespasian, onwards with the Ninth Legion, onwards, always in front and to the right of his _centuria_.

He was weary to his very marrow, the brutal skirmishes against a tribe called the Silures causing him to think that they would never end with this ongoing fighting, that he would never return to his beloved Rome as a breathing man. It was only when they were handed a bound Caracatus from the Briton queen Cartimandua, that Pete made a proper count and realised he had not seen his home in nearly seven years.

>

***

He saw it so many times in his dreams, that when his home loomed in his sight, he thought he was trapped in his mind again. Here, the comforting walls that loomed over the dusty street as it passed by; and here, the strongly made door that opened and released an anxious Docila, her hair now completely changed from its former black-and-white to a mass of grey. It was shocking to see, but Pete's tired mind refused to absorb anything else but the person exiting after her as he dismounted.

Patricius looked at him with polite curiosity, as if Petronus had been out for a long walk, instead of years of battle. He looked very much the same and Pete was grateful for that; in the years of his absence, he had been horrified to note that Patrick's face had been fading from his memory; the only details that had been sharp in his remembrance were the bright colour of his eyes.

"Master," Patrick murmured, gaze sweeping behind Pete where small batch of captives had been trailing behind him, looking around themselves in frightened interest. There was a flash of something dark across his features, something Pete could not understand, because it was covered over so completely before he had a chance to really look. It must have been some sort of recall for him, Pete presumed; the memory of when he first came here, covered in dirt and insolence. None of these new servants had dared to speak to Pete as Patrick had, and he had actually smiled in fond recollection at the little _patricius_ that consumed him so. None of them had stipulated that Pete _not_ touch them, none of them had glared at him in spite; Pete wondered if it was the centurion in him that always needed a struggle, something or someone to conquer.

"I shall prepare a bath," Patrick said, inclining his head. His hair shone in the sun and Pete reached out to touch it, forgetting himself completely as the rest of his household tumbled out to greet him. Patrick's eyes flashed at him in caution; Pete rest his hand on Docila's shoulder instead, listening with only one ear to her tearful tirade as Patrick slipped inside the vestibule.

Pete was highly disgruntled to note that instead of Patrick attending to his bath, one of the new servants was sent in. This one annoyed Pete by pouring the water too heavily and using the wrong oils. He chased him out with a bellow, fuming as another servant appeared in the doorway of his bath, one that was not new, but still not Patrick, their hands completely wrong on his shoulders. Pete felt his annoyance grow to a deep simmering rage, because he had not fought for so long to come home to such a rebellious display.

As soon as he was securely wrapped in a toga, the scars on his arms as decorative testimony to his status as a centurion, Pete made his way to the servant's quarters, and was promptly stopped by Aurelia as he passed through the atrium.

"My son!" she cried shrilly, hanging onto the front of his garment as he embraced her awkwardly. Her bracelets bumped against his chest and he tried to pry her off without seeming too keen on doing that, catching movement out of the corner of his eye. Patricius was standing in the shadowed area of the atrium, near the bust of Pete's father. Aurelia held Pete at arm's length, gasping at his plain clothes. "Look at your face. You look like your father, even more so. And what is that you are wearing! You cannot go as such to the victory march. You!" She whirled towards Patrick with the prescience of someone who owned numerous servants and knew that one should be close at all times. "Get him that new one that I brought for him, to celebrate his return. Hurry, now!" She snapped, and Patricius seemed to walk in a manner as unrushed as he possibly could right past them, with his eyes focussed straight in front.

"That one, you must get rid of him," Aurelia said in distaste as Patrick headed to Pete's quarters. "He moves too slow."

"He moves fine." Pete gave her a strained smile. "I see you've missed me."

"But of course," Aurelia said, looking injured. "I have dressed as if in mourning for seven years. I do not know what I would have done," she continued as Patrick returned with another servant following close behind, "if you had gone without giving me my grandchild. Your father's name must continue." Her voice was soft and, for the first time in many years since his father had died, completely sincere. Pete's eyes were fixed on Patrick's, whose face was like a mask carved out of marble.

"I know," Pete muttered.

"There are many Roman women who will be proud to continue that name. I know some! I will tell you who they are." Aurelia sniffed and Patrick's mouth, which was already in a long, thin line, twitched.

Patrick turned and gave the other servant the bundle of fine material, heavy folds falling from his pale, smooth arms into the clutches of the other. Without looking at Pete again, he made his way to the _culina_. Aurelia turned and snatched the toga, giving Patrick's disappearing figure a sidelong glare.

"I say you must flog that one," she noted imperiously. "And send him away. Far too troublesome."

"Don't tell me what to do in my house, Mother," he responded automatically, but his mind ticked over Patrick's abnormally cold demeanour as they stood watching the victory march a little later in the day; Pete's 'request' that Patrick accompany him to this public display was couched in a threatening tone, to deter any thoughts of sending another servant in his place. Patrick had followed him without any sign of protest, but his expression, which had always been closed and cool, was bordering on completely blank. He stood away from Pete and a little behind as they watched the shouting crowds from the relative safety of the Senate building, a rough open structure that had been erected on the plains to accommodate the parade. He appeared completely deferential to the casual observer; but the wall that Pete felt between them pressed against his bones and burned into his mind.

As he mulled over this, Caracatus was led in front of the Senate with other war-captives, a victory prize to be executed right after this exultant parade. There were a few laughs and many murmurs as the proud man was led in, bound in chains, head unbent in supplication, as the rest of the defeated party were; he walked right past where Pete and Patrick stood, turning his head suddenly to look at them. Pete turned his own head and out of the corner of his eye he could see Patrick standing as tall as his short frame could manage, round chin tilted upward. A wry smile flitted over the otherwise proud face of the Briton prince and he bowed his head as far as he could... not at the _centurion_ , but at the servant beside him, saying something in a low, thick voice, the language unfamiliar.

To the surprised mutters of the Romans around them, Patrick bowed back and replied, and the Briton nodded as he was pulled forward. Pete had not forgotten that Patrick was born a _patricius_ , more than likely groomed to take on a high standing in society, and so knowledgeable in more languages than Pete; still, it was surprising to hear those rare occasions when he spoke in other tongues.

Pete turned on him, hoping his glare was as forbidding as it possibly could be, for he was not particularly angry. He was just as amazed as everyone else, but according to the norms of Roman society, it would not do for a servant to act in such a manner.

"Watch yourself," he warned, his heart not in the snappish tone he adopted; Patrick's eyes flicked to his, glittering before he bent his head again.

The attention of the people around them was now directed to where Caracatus was now speaking earnestly to the men of the Senate, the Emperor sitting and looking at the Briton as if he was some new species of animal, exotic and a little dangerous. Like Patrick when he had first been brought here, Caracatus’ voice in the Roman language was halting, yet proud, words careful and clipped. Pete strained to listen.

"....my present lot, disfiguring as it is for me, is magnificent for you. I had horses, men and wealth: what wonder if I was unwilling to lose them? If you wish to command, does it really follow that everyone should accept your slavery?" His voice was rising even more in the suddenly silent Senate, the roars of the crowds outside filtering into the high-ceilinged space. "If I were now being handed over as one who had surrendered immediately, neither my fortune or your glory would have achieved brilliance. On the other hand, if you preserve me safe and sound, I shall be an eternal example of your clemency."1

He fell silent; his hands, which had been opened wide during this speech, fell to his sides, but his head was still held high, watching as the Senate talked with each other; Claudius had steepled his fingers and tapped the tips of them against his lips.

"What did he say to you?" Pete turned to Patrick and received a weighty look before the servant responded.

"He asked me if I had given up."

"Have you?" Pete tilted his head and considered the flushed cheekbones of his servant; the Briton prince and members of his family were receiving a pardon from the Emperor's tribunal and leave to live in peace in Rome. After such an eloquent address, Pete was not surprised.

Patrick's small smile was brittle. "I told him _never_."

*

Pete did not speak to Patrick as they made their way home, Caracatus' words echoing in his head. Patrick was true to his word; he had never surrendered, his pride still intact even after years of servitude. But he had remained in Pete's house when the centurion had gone to war, when he could have escaped. He posed this as a question to the servant as his bath was drawn.

"I have no home anywhere else," Patrick replied, pouring the clay pots of hot water deftly. "Except for where I am now."

He turned to exit as Pete slid down into the fragrant water, but Pete reached out and caught him by the wrist, pulling him back.

"Please let me go," Patrick said in a soft voice. "Master. Whatever... whatever we were before, it must not continue." He closed his eyes as Pete's hand raised unheedingly and stroked down the side of his face. "You must start your family."

"That will be a different issue from what is between you and I. It is something that must be done. You and I... that is something I _want_."

"Then, take another servant. It will be the same. I am no different from the ones you have brought home from battle."

Abruptly, Pete understood, the thoughts and actions of his proud _patricius_ now as bright as the sun, even behind that thoroughly vacant facade; the stung expression in his eyes was what gave it away, hidden behind a layer of stubbornness. Patrick did not know him at _all_ , if he thought he would be so easily replaced, not after seven years of Pete's thoughts constantly bent towards him. This had not been purely physical, not even from the very start. No matter how Patrick tried to hide from him or push him away with that chilly wall, he would not do such a thing; it was nigh impossible.

How could Patrick have forgotten what Pete had said to him? _This is for as long as I have breath... I can never give you up now._

"You are wrong," he began slowly, pulling Patrick even closer as he considered what he had to say. "You are different."

"No," Patrick replied, shaking his head and trying to resist even as Pete tugged him into the bath with him, shifting their limbs so that they were tucked close together, Patrick's _tunica_ rough against Pete's bare skin. "No. It was wrong of me to... feel as I did. I allowed myself to expect too much of your return... that you were _mine_ to return to after so long, I am just--"

"I own many servants. But I do not own you. I never have," Pete whispered right in his ear, biting down on the earlobe gently. Patrick shuddered and attempted to arch away. "Patrick. Patrick," and Patrick went still in his arms. " _You_ own _me_."

There was a tense moment when he feared that Patrick would continue to be as a rock in the circle of his arms, ignoring what he had just said, such a solemn thing for a Roman centurion to claim to a servant. But it was true, and as he pressed his nose into Patrick's cheek, he felt the tension melt out of Patrick's body and his face turned so that their mouths met.

"You are _free_ ," Pete said against his lips before his mouth parted and Patrick's tongue slipped hungrily inside, so many years gone from between them as Patrick's hand curled in desperation around the nape of his neck, trying to get closer. "I will free you before witnesses," he vowed between kisses, "and you will become _libertus_ , a freed-man." He tore his mouth away from Patrick's searching one, averting his eyes from the tempting fullness of his lips. "This is the greatest thing I have to give you now. So you will understand how willing I am to let you go, to do what you will as a free person, even though I would have you to stay with me for as long as we both live. This is how I _feel_. You must understand," he finished gruffly, feeling deeply bereft, as if Patrick had already departed from him; but a promise made is a promise kept. Pete would do all within his power, as Patrick's patron, to guarantee him this manumission.

A hand touched his jaw and turned his face to see who he already knew was his beloved. He _would_ take a wife; that was a part of his obligation, something he knew he would have to do, no matter how he disinclined was to the mere thought of it. He _would_ have a child, that was his promise to his father's name, and raise such a child in the memory of his strong parentage; but he had already given the most important piece of himself to the person sitting in the cooling water with him right now.

"I am free," Patrick said in wonder, smiling at him in such an open manner that Pete held his breath and stared. "Then... I am free to stay here with you."

"Yes," Pete exhaled, shaking as Patrick placed a chaste kiss to his forehead, trailing down to put another at the corner of his mouth. He pressed against Patrick, feeling the steady beat of his heart against his own bare chest, even through the layer of Patrick's soaked clothes. "If that is what you choose?"

"That is what I _want_ ," Patrick affirmed, hands roaming over Pete's body as his smile grew; until all Pete saw within it was the promise of who they had both become.

They were perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the information used in this came from the internet (Wikipedia, what). Any historical faults are all my own.
> 
> 1\. Speech by Caracatus; Tacitus, _The Annals_ , translated by A.J. Woodman, 2004; see also Church and Brodribb's translation  
> (<http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/cgi-bin/ptext?lookup=Tac.+Ann.+12.37>.


	8. Patricius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His name had not been Patricius.

His name had not been Patricius. 

In his other life, he had not been the slave of a Roman centurion, but the last son of a German prince. He had been a prince in his own right, young and ready to conquer all he could see, filled with pride in his family name.

Then the Romans, those roaming _wolves_ , had swarmed over his land with furious speed and he had found himself racing along burning fields, his guards hastening him along. One by one, they had been cut down and he had stumbled as a large horse reared in front of him, blocking his escape. Someone was shouting at him in that disgusting language and he yelled back, taking up stones in his bare hands and hurling at the fiends.

"Be gone!" he had screamed and the Roman soldiers had laughed, jumping off and advancing on him with their long, dangerous weapons. He had been defenseless, all his weapons left behind in his burning house, but he would not be killed on his knees. He was of the house of Cherusker. He had raised his chin and waited for the deadly blow.

"Stop," a low voice had commanded, carrying over the screams and thundering hooves. "Stop, I say."

He had whirled, stumbling back. Atop a large black horse, a slight man sat with a crested helmet tucked under his arm. His face was hard and sooty, but his large brown eyes were fixed on the desperate prince. 

"I will kill you, Roman scum," the German prince vowed in their own tongue, clenching his fists as he spat on the ground. "So slay me now, before I rain death upon your house."

The centurion on the black horse raised his eyebrows in bored interest, as if the prince had told him a particularly tasty tidbit of gossip instead of threatening his life. The prince felt as if the centurion wasn't really seeing him at all; this _infuriated_ him.

"Petronus, shall we do as he says?" The soldiers taunted from behind the prince and there was the sound of their swords clapping against their shields.

The warrior called Petronus smiled darkly and then placed his helmet on his head; the German _patricius_ had never hated someone so much in his entire life.

"No," the centurion said with a hard grin. "This one, he shall be one of my own."

He spurred his horse onwards without a second glance and the little _patricius_ fought tooth and nail, but he was still trussed up as neatly as a trapped bird.

"I will kill him," he told them all, and they nodded sagely at this.

"Certainly," they said as they dragged him along to his doom, "you can _try_."

 

*

 

His name is Patricius. In his other life, he had been the last in a proud line of kings, but now... now he is a freed-man, formerly a slave of a Roman centurion. He has never resigned himself to this life which fate had writ for him; he walks with his head high, and his eyes sharp on those who dare to taunt him.

His life is completely changed, because of one man.

This one man now has a wife and a small son, but he still looks at Patricius with a sort of helplessness, eyes fixed on him as Patrick moves through the house with calm ease. The wife of the centurion knows this well; once, she tried to send Patrick away and the wrath of the centurion knew no limits. Since then, she treats Patrick with a grudging respect and Patrick acknowledges her gesture with grace.

It takes a certain rare person to fully command the heart of a centurion.

The little boy, he is a wonder; he grows with love and laughter and it may be that he will not know war as his father does. He calls Patrick _the prince_. Patrick muses on just who might have told the little son to call him such, but he doesn't mind. He teaches the small boy everything he knows about duty, respect, honour, strength and love. He teaches him all the languages he can remember, and Patrick was indeed raised to be a prince, groomed to possibly be a king: he knows much about royal behaviour. There is much he can teach the son of Petronus.

Petronus says to him: "Do you remember when you said you would kill me?" and Patrick replies with a wry smile, "Yes, I recall."

Pete takes his hand and places it on his chest, near his heart. "You have taken this for your own. Many times over, I have died of love for you."

_fin_


End file.
